Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

At the sacrifice of my secret,—of my own discovery,—I would surprise her with the revelation of my find, and share my hero with her! It was a hard struggle, but, once resolved, I could say with cheerful assurance, “Yes, father, I have something very, very nice!”

“That’s good, my boy!” said my father, as he patted me approvingly on the shoulder. “Do your best to make it so, for your mother deserves it.”

Since the old churchyard had been mentioned, I was eager to find out if my father knew anything about my hero. Therefore I asked, with as careless an air as I could assume—

“Say, father, who used to be buried in that place round the church?”

“Why, my boy, I don’t know. It must be at least fifty years since that burying-ground was used. When I came to live here the new cemetery was already opened, and I really do not know who was buried in the old place.”

“But, father, did you never hear of _any_ one that was buried there?”

“No,” said my father; but, after thinking a little, he went on: “Yes, I do, though! they buried Kees Van Assen there. I heard so the other day from Notary Van Tefelen.”

Could that be my hero? It might well be, why else should the old burying-ground have been mentioned at the notary’s?

Surely, then, he must have been a great-uncle or distant cousin of that odious Alfred, whom we always called “the Muff,” because he never would join our games for fear of getting bruised and scratched, or soiling his clothes and hands.

“Was Van Assen a hero, father?” I uttered the words with difficulty.

“A hero, my boy? No, certainly not. No, quite the contrary!”

“A coward, father? I thought as much.”

“Indeed, and why?”

“Because that stupid boy of the minister’s is Van Assen too, and he _is_ a coward!”

“That does not follow. This Van Assen was not in any way related to the minister’s family. At least I believe not. But he was not a coward, he was far worse. He was a traitor to his country. He betrayed the town to the French.”

“And what did they do to a low fellow like that?” I asked, full of pain and indignation that a countryman of mine could have betrayed his native town to the enemy.

“At first, nothing; for at that time he was protected by the French. But when they were gone, his fellow-townsmen razed his house to the ground, and he was shot.”

“Then he was buried in the churchyard?”

“Well, yes; because his family was a rich and distinguished one, they consented to bury him in the churchyard; but, of course, it was done without show or splendour. I know no more about it.”

“Don’t you know in which corner he was buried?”

“Yes, the corner by the baker’s shop.”

Now there were two corners of the churchyard which had a baker’s shop near them. Near one of them, I had found my hero; but he was called Jan Liller, and not Van Assen! I resolved never more to buy tarts or buns in the corner where the traitor was buried,—that was accursed from henceforth. We had been in the habit of going there, because we got far more for our money than elsewhere.

It now at once became clear to me that this baker knew of the traitor’s neighbourhood, and was afraid of losing his customers unless he sold his goods very cheap!

I had not thus gained much information by my inquiries. Only I had found a new point of comparison, my hero _versus_ Van Assen! Jan Liller was dearer to me than before, now that I could contrast him with a contemptible Van Assen! My hero had become greater than ever!

As soon as I reached home, I ran to my own little room, in order to gaze my fill on his relics—to steep my soul in his greatness.

On the stairs I felt for my key.

What was that? It was not in my pocket! I had not lost it—I was certain of that. Then I must have left it sticking in my box, and in that case my secret—my hero was lost!

A terrible fear overcame me. My steps dragged on the stairs. With a sinking heart I opened my door,—my presentiment had not deceived me!

There stood my little sister before the open box!

“You horrid girl—what are you doing with my things? Keep off!” I screamed, when I saw my secret revealed.

“But, Con! you had left the key in the lock, and I just looked in!” cried my sister, terrified.

“DASHED THEM ON THE GROUND!”
]

“Yes—it’s just like girls—always bothering about things that don’t concern them. You’re always meddling with everything, and spoiling other people’s things!”

“Oh, Con! don’t be so angry! I only just wanted to look! And, just see,—I’ve been cleaning up this dirty little brass plate that was inside. I’ve made it look quite nice—and there’s some writing on it.”

At the same time she thrust the now glittering brass plate into my hands.

I looked at it.

Everything seemed to turn round with me. Everything was black. I could see nothing but the glittering yellow plate, and the name engraved on it:—

KEES VAN ASSEN,

1813.

I dropped the brass plate, seized the bones and the bullets out of the box, and dashed them on the ground.

There lay my hero!

CONRAD VAN DER LIEDE.

_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._

To keep apples from spoiling, they should be placed in a cool room in the house occupied by a family with eight children.

* * * * *

_Florist._ “Look at the blush on these roses, sir.”

_Bachelor_ (_with a look at his purse_). “I see. They must be blushing at the exorbitant price you charge for them.”

FLORIST: “LOOK AT THE BLUSH ON THESE ROSES, SIR.”
]

* * * * *

DOMESTIC MORALITY.

“You have not been looking sharp, Bet; the butcher has given you more bones than meat again.”

_Bet._ “Well, I told him so at the time. I said, _if it was for myself I wouldn’t take it_.”

* * * * *

_Actor._ “When I was last acting here, the public were so enthusiastic, you can’t imagine. Why, they insisted on _carrying_ me back to the hotel, when I left the theatre.”

_Critic._ “Man, man, you don’t mean to say you were so far gone as _that?_”

* * * * *

_Patient._ “Doctor, I think I have had an attack of the gout.”

_Doctor._ “Stuff and nonsense! if you had really had one, you couldn’t _think_—you’d know it.”

* * * * *

“Father,” inquired a small boy, “what does a ‘Paradise’ mean?”

“A Paradise, my son, is the corner by the fire when your mother has gone to stay with her friends for a few days.”

* * * * *

A HARMLESS INSECT.

_Traveller._ “Waiter, how can you give me soup like this?—there’s a fly in it.”

_Waiter._ “Oh! _that_ won’t hurt you—it’s quite dead.”

* * * * *

A lady having engaged a new man-servant, answering to the name of Joseph, told him that she would always ring once for him, and twice for her maid.

A short time after this, she rang the bell, but Joseph failed to appear. She grew impatient, and pulled the bell-rope again. The maid entered.

“I did not ring for you; I wanted Joseph. Why does he not come?”

“Joseph,” replied the maid, “is sitting by the fire, reading Madame’s paper. When Madame rang the first time, he told me to look out, for he should not wonder if you were to ring again. And when Madame did so, he turned to me, and said, ‘See? that’s for you.’”

* * * * *

“Why, ma’am,” said the housemaid, when she heard that her mistress had been very unwell during the night, “why didn’t you tell me when you felt ill?”

“I didn’t want to wake you, you had been working hard all day, and——”

“Oh! that’s nothing; you might have called me all the same. I sleep so sound that you would never have waked me.”

_A RASCALLY VALET._

_A room in a hotel. Tables and chairs are covered with portmanteaus,
carpet-bags, clothes, &c. On a table (L.) is an open jewel-case,
(R.) a sofa; in the background a bed. Frans (Jonker Van Bergen’s
man) is discovered half-reclining on the sofa, smoking a cigar._

_Frans_ (_sings_).

“Mon maître est un filou,
Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête, la, la....”

That was indeed a barbarous idea—leaving me at home. “Charité bien ordonnée commence par soi-même,” as we used to say at Paris. My gentleman’s gone out a-courting, and I may just sit and grumble in these confounded lodgings! He hasn’t the smallest grain of feeling. Why couldn’t he remember that while he’s busy making love to his silly cousin, and flattering his cracked old aunt,—that is, making fools of both of them,—I might, in the meanwhile, very appropriately amuse myself with the maid!

Pretty little thing, that Sophie! Just a little bit _bête_, still—but that will come all right in time—I’ll educate her fast enough. We haven’t been to Paris for nothing. I had views on her already, when we were here eighteen months ago. She was then a mere child, and I had not yet seen Notre Dame and the Pont-Neuf. In point of fact, come to think of it, I was still very young, and not _au fait_ about life. I can clearly remember getting quite confused when the postman’s flaxen-haired daughter scolded me for ... come, Frans, let those things rest ... she’s at rest herself.... How could I help it, if the girl was so gone on me? Why didn’t her father take better care of her? What is a father for, if not to look after his daughter?

What a difference, when I think of those days! Confused! ashamed!—why, I don’t know the meaning of the words. The only thing I’m ashamed of now, is that I ever had the _faiblesse_ to be ashamed of anything. And now that, thanks to my education in the _guinguettes_, I have become quite a _jeune homme accompli_,—now that I might have begun a nice diversion with the _suivante_ of my master’s intended, ... now I’m got rid off with a gruff, “Frans, stay and look after the room!”

He’ll talk in a different tune when he finds he needs me again to get him out of some scrape or other. Then it is, “Frans, dear Frans, save me; I don’t know what I’m to do!” Frans is good enough for that. But besides this, _au fond_, it’s unjust to leave me here indoors. A man is a man, and has reason and freewill. Jonker Van Bergen goes out courting. So we see that beings with reason and freewill do go courting. But I too am a man; I have freewill and reason—therefore I ought to go out courting too. That is clear and undeniable.

Glorious logic! Precious philosophy! Invaluable gift of Heaven, which is scattered with generous hand at Paris. Beloved nurse of all that ... that....

And with all that I’m sitting here indoors, like Job, on his ancient sofa. It is annoying; it’s very annoying! It’s the most annoying thing in the world! It could not possibly be worse; it’s _ennuyant_, _étouffant_, _embêtant_!

[_Jumps up angrily, and walks backwards and forwards, smoking._]

I’m curious to know whether he’ll get through with his business, and succeed better than last year. The devil grant he may! Otherwise it’s all up with him—all up—and he’s ruined! If he hasn’t made his lady-cousin his own, with all that belongs to her [_goes through the gestures of counting money_], within a month, he’s a dead man! Physically dead, financially dead, civilly dead,—dead in every possible way! Dead to _chambertin_, _baronfayol_, and champagne; dead to the _bouillotte_ table; _dead pour tout ce qui porte un jupon ... enfin_—burst up!

This wouldn’t really matter so much if these gentlemen hadn’t the disagreeable habit of dragging down every one about them in their fall. [_Makes a wry face._] The cheques! the cheques!

I am anything but _à monaise_, as we used to say at Paris. We have only a month before us. Before that time we must have money to pay up, or the whole thing will go smash. And then he’s quite capable of saying that it was I who forged the cheques. Then come examinations and cross-examinations, witnesses _à charge_ and _à décharge_; reply, duplicate, triplicate, or whatever they call it; and the end of it is that the President puts on the black cap—grim fashion that!—and has a sentence read out, in which poor Frans is very badly used on the score of ... complicity!

I might indeed get hold of a lawyer who has studied the _circonstances atténuantes_, as we used to say at Paris; but what’s the good, when the stupid bench don’t understand them? Civilisation is at such a low ebb in this land of ours. Quite otherwise over there. I attended a trial in France ... a woman who had committed the _sottise_ of hacking her child to pieces, chopping it up small, and cooking it ... what further could you have? It would have been a bad look-out for her in this country. Over there, she simply had to take the precaution of providing _circonstances atténuantes_, ... and she got off all right. That’s what I call philanthropy—civilisation! Just look for civilisation _here_! there’s nothing of the sort. Everything is taken ill here. If your scales or your weights are not quite right, they take it ill of you! If you call a man a thief or a scoundrel, in the friendliest way in the world, and can’t produce your proofs on the spot, they take it ill of you! Just as if those were not the biggest scoundrels of all against whom nothing can be proved! If you happen to swear falsely, they take that ill too! Why, not long ago I heard of a man undergoing very unpleasant treatment in public, because he—it seems incredible—because he had set his own house on fire! Stupid nation this! Not the faintest notion of the universal rights of mankind! The house belonged to him; what business was it of people’s what he did with it? Why shouldn’t he make a bonfire of it as soon as smoke this “light brown”? (Good cigar, too!) Yes, they say, but ... his _next-door neighbour_! Stuff and nonsense! Am _I_ not to illuminate, because somebody else prefers to sit in darkness? If my next-door neighbour has cat’s eyes, he had better go and live somewhere else.

No, no,—that delicate feeling,—that tact,—that talent for making black white with all the facility in the world, and without fear of contradiction,—and above all, the glorious _circonstances atténuantes_,—_all these_ you find only in France!

Splendid invention, those _circonstances atténuantes_! They are the lightning-conductor of the Procureur du Roi’s wrath, as we used to say at Paris. They are galvanism applied to the Code Napoléon. They are ... in short, they are anything you please.

Oh, pleasant France! beloved France! When I say France, I mean Paris. Paris, with its _bals-musard_! Paris, with its _rendezvous_ on the Boulevards and in the Bois de Boulogne! Paris, with its _limonadières_, _fruitières_, _bouquetières_, and all other _ières_!

[_Begins to recite, with exaggerated action._]

“O France! O precious land! O paradise o’ the world!
I greet thee, though the marsh and mud ... marsh and mud....”

... well, never mind; I shall hit it some other time. How is one to find a rhyme to “world”? I ought to have begun differently. But what I mean is, that if ever I find myself mixed up in this _fâcheuse affaire_ of the cheques, I shall at once make my native country a present of my citizenship, and take shares in France. Then I shall have the right of being attended to by a French court, take a few _circonstances atténuantes_ with me, and Frans is all right—quits the court without a stain on his character!

A greater fool than that young Huser I never saw in all my born days. Who ever heard of a man letting himself be ill-treated in the place of another? I never could understand that story. The imbecile! I wish I knew where to find him; I should go to him, and say, “Huser, my dear boy, we’ve made a mistake again about a signature or two; do make yourself responsible for the error—there’s a good fellow.” I believe, upon my soul! the man would be fool enough to do it over again. I can’t explain the matter, but I dare swear that Huser, in spite of his sour face, was the most faithful chum in the world. I would bet something that he had been brought up at Paris, or at least had a French nurse or a Swiss _bonne_. Sacrifices like that it would be vain to look for elsewhere ... [_A knock at the door._] Ho, hey! _entrez_.

[_Sits down on a chair in the middle of the stage, stretching his
legs straight out in front of him._]

Look here now, Frans, you must represent your master, the noble and honourable gentleman, Jonkheer Karel Bernhard Anton Jozef Delmare Van Bergen Van Wiesendaal! (_Raises his voice._) _Entrez!_

_Enter_ GENERAL VAN WELLER, _in undress uniform, with a riding-whip in
his hand_.

_Frans_ (_without looking round_). Who’s there?

_Van Weller._ Look round, and perhaps you’ll know.

_Frans._ I’m just like Louis Napoleon’s knights—I do well, but I don’t care to look round.[7]

_Van Weller_ (_looks round with displeasure, then approaches and gazes fixedly for a few moments at Frans_). No, you are not he. You are too low-looking a fellow to be my nephew. Who are you?

_Frans_ (_without changing his position_). In the first place, or, as we used to say at Paris, _primo_, I must request you to allow me to express my thanks for your very flattering opinion with regard to my physiognomy; _secundo_, it would be the proper thing for you to do me the favour of informing me of _your_ name.

“ENTREZ.”
]

_Van Weller._ Insolence personified!—my nephew cannot be far off. (_To Frans._) My name is Jan Weller. Who are you?

_Frans._ I don’t know.

_Van Weller._ It is surely your place to know.

_Frans._ Alas! who in this corrupt age does know himself? At Ephesus, it was written——

_Van Weller._ That does not concern me, or you either. What is your name?

_Frans._ That’s another matter. My late master used to call me....

_Van Weller_ (_impatiently_). Well?

_Frans._ ... when he was in a good-humour, “You vagabond!”

_Van Weller._ Pretty! very pretty! If you keep up this game much longer, I shall be tempted to write that name on your back with my horsewhip!

_Frans._ Don’t do that, please. It would cause confusion, as it is not my name at present.

_Van Weller_ (_smiling_). Well, tell me your name, then?

_Frans._ Girls who don’t know me call me “Angel,” or something similar. Others,—of earlier date,—“scoundrel, wretch, miscreant,” and I don’t know what all ... mostly words that are not to be found in the _Dictionnaire de l’Académie_.

_Van Weller._ Tell me, in the devil’s name, who you are, fellow!

_Frans._ My mother used to call me Levi....

_Van Weller._ Well then?

_Frans._ Yes, but ... that is not my name. She only called me so, because there was a Jew of that name who sold vegetables down our street, and I could imitate him so well.

_Van Weller._ It is enough to exhaust any man’s patience! Speak out, once for all, in whose rooms am I?

[ANDRIES _puts his head in at the door_.]

_Andries._ Are you here, General?

_Frans_ (_springs to his feet_). General? Your obedient servant!

_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Come in! [_Enter Andries._] Ask this fellow his name. If he does not answer briefly, and to the point, as soon as I give the word “March!” you take him by the collar and throw him out of window.

[_Andries salutes, turns on his heel, and marches up to Frans. Frans
approaches the bed._]

_Van Weller._(_to Frans_). What are you going to do?

_Frans._ With your permission, General ... I have always been a lover of military exercises, but being only a civilian I am not at all well up in window-throwing drill, and so, I thought, a couple of pillows on the pavement....

_Van Weller._ Andries, bring the fellow here!

[_Points to the floor with his riding-whip. Frans escapes Andries
who walks toward him with a stiff military step._]

_Van Weller._ Quick march! Seize him, and bring him here!

[_Sits down. Andries seizes Frans, and drags him roughly to the spot
indicated, but in such a manner that Frans stands with his back
to the General._]

_Van Weller._ Right about face!

[_Andries turns Frans round by the shoulders, forcing him to face
the General,—then takes a step backward, and remains standing at
attention._]

_Van Weller._ (_throws the riding-whip to Andries_). Take it! Now, attend! When I say “Out!” you begin to thrash him till the word is given to stop. (_To Frans._) What is your name?

_Frans._ I have already told you, sir, that my mother—

_Van Weller._ Out!

[_Andries lays on with the whip._]

_Frans._ No—no—oh!—my name is Frans Varel, General!

_Van Weller._ Leave out the “General!” for the future. And the “oh!” also. Answer briefly what I ask you—no more, no less. What is your profession?

_Frans._ Valet, or rather secretary, to——

_Van Weller._ Enough! Who is your master?

_Frans._ Jonkheer Van Bergen.

_Van Weller._ Just so, that must be the right man! Has he any other name besides Bergen?

_Frans._ My master’s full name is Jonkheer Karel Bernhard Anton Jozef Delmare Van Bergen Van Wiesendaal. (_Aside._) Oh! how miserably I’m representing him!

_Van Weller._ How old is your master?

_Frans._ I think he is twenty-eight.

_Van Weller._ The same! the same! How long have you been in his service?

_Frans._ We grew up together.

_Van Weller._ Then you knew his father?

_Frans._ Certainly. It was he who used to call me “vagabond,” when——

_Van Weller._ That is not what I am asking. How long is it since the old gentleman died?

_Frans_ (_considering_). Fifteen or sixteen years.

_Van Weller._ Did he die of an illness?

_Frans._ He certainly did not die of health.

_Van Weller_ (_impatiently_). Speak out—what did he die of?

_Frans._ Of ... of ... an exaggerated sense of honour.

_Van Weller._ Speak plainly, fellow, or I’ll give the word! Relate what happened shortly before his death.

_Frans._ Shortly before his death....

_Van Weller._ Well—be quick!

_Frans._ He was still alive.

_Van Weller_ (_angrily_). Out!

[_Andries lays on with the whip._]

_Frans_ (_quickly_). Stop!

_Van Weller_(_to Andries_). Why are you not thrashing him as I told you? You hear him trying to make a fool of me!

_Andries._ The word was given to stop, General.

_Van Weller._ He gave it, not I!

_Andries._ There was nothing about that in the orders, General.

_Van Weller._ I am in sole command here, of course. Now speak, you scoundrel, quickly! _Out_——

_Frans._ Oh, sir! I’m beginning! The next day——

_Van Weller._ What? What day? I know nothing yet!

_Frans._ Monsieur Socrates also knew nothing. The recognition of this fact is the source of all wisdom, General. I am telling you the story in my own way, beginning at the end. I belong to the school of M. Dumas and M. Sue.

_Van Weller._ Don’t wear out my patience any longer, fellow! Relate consecutively what took place on the last day of Mr Van Bergen’s life.

_Frans._ He got up at half-past four in the morning, and put on his socks and boots. I did not see this, but I am induced to believe it, as he appeared, a little later, with his boots and spurs on. It is thus a fair inference that he had just put them on, unless, like M. Charles Douze, he had been sleeping in them—in which case....

_Van Weller._ Are you quite incorrigible? Don’t tell me the story like that!

_Frans._ Am _I_ to blame? _N’est pas conteur qui veut._ I did not profess to be a good story-teller, General.

_Van Weller._ Silence! I ask you for the last time whether you are willing to relate, in a proper manner, what you know of the affair?

_Frans._ About Charles Douze? He was born——

_Van Weller._ Out!

[_Andries strikes Frans with the whip, several times._]

_Frans._ Ai! ai!—oh! General!—I’ll tell you everything!

_Van Weller._ Stop! (_To Frans._) Now go on, and think of your back.

_Frans._ The old gentleman had come back from an assembly at Court, the evening before, very much put out. They said he had had a quarrel, and was to fight a duel next day. I only know this by tradition, as you may say, because I and the young master were under arrest, locked up in the summer house, because we had stolen apri——

_Van Weller._ Never mind the apricots, and tell me about the duel.

_Frans._ Well, then—my master must have slept very badly that night. This, too, I only know by way of tradition; and since tradition represents the border-land between the dark region of myth and the daylight of history——

_Van Weller._ Out——

_Frans._ Ow!—wait—listen! Next morning he went out at five o’clock, and came home at half-past six, mortally wounded. He had a bullet in his left breast, whence I infer that he had been shot. But I cannot with certainty——

_Van Weller._ Silence! Who was his adversary?

_Frans._ That I do not know. The coachman who drove the master out, said....

_Van Weller_ (_impatiently_). Well?

_Frans._ Said he did not know either.

_Van Weller_ (_stamps his foot_). Did your master die soon after?

_Frans._ Yes—at half-past one that afternoon ... as near as I can guess. For, you see, as the young gentleman had fastened a frog to the pendulum of the big clock that stood in the hall——

_Van Weller._ To the deuce with your frogs and your clocks! Answer me—did any one come to see Bergen before his death?

_Frans._ Yes; three officers, one of them a major.

_Van Weller_ (_aside_). Ah! that was Huser. (_To Frans._) What happened then?

_Frans._ They were admitted to see him, but the servants were sent away. But as I have always been very fond of tragedy scenes, I managed to peep through the keyhole; and I saw that the Major fell on his knees beside the bed, and cried. The kneeling was very well done ... his _contenance_ was simply perfect ... I was all attention. Old Mr Van Bergen held out his hand to him, and said——

_Van Weller_ (_rising quickly_). That is just what I want to know—go on!

_Frans._ That he was thirsty.

_Van Weller_ (_sits down again, as if disappointed_). That’s not what I meant. Go on!

_Frans._ They gave him something to drink. Then he sat up in bed, and put his arms round that officer. “Let us part in peace,” he said, “_sans rancune_!” The officer kept on crying, and said, “Can you ever forgive me, Bergen?” The master smiled, and said, “Gladly! gladly!—_sans rancune_, dearest——”

_Van Weller._ Well—dearest _what?_

_Frans._ I couldn’t catch the name. And I never saw that Major again. I heard that he died about six months later.

_Van Weller_ (_aside_). It must have been Huser—not a doubt about it! (_To Frans._) And then? What happened next?

_Frans._ The wounded man asked one of the officers to call his little Charles—that was the young master, who was still in the summer-house—_I_ had got out.... The young gentleman came up to the bed, and, instead of being pleased at getting out sooner than he expected, he began to cry too.

_Van Weller._ Go on, go on!

_Frans._ After being silent for some time, the master said to the Major——

_Van Weller._ Go on, do, fellow! I’ve been waiting for that about an hour!

_Frans._ He said,—“Don’t distress yourself over my death. It was in fair fight. My fate might have been yours. Only—be a father to my poor Charles!”

_Van Weller._ What next?

_Frans._ The Major began to sob again, and cried, “I swear to you I will!” Then Baron Van Bergen smiled pleasantly, held out his hand to him once more, and died. [_V. W. remains lost in thought._] It was a touching scene, General. The old gentleman died almost as naturally as M. Furneau of the Théâtre Royal. I should have been quite overcome with emotion if the other two officers had possessed any knowledge of the stage. They seemed to be novices, who had never been in Paris. Not the faintest idea of tragic action—they didn’t even wring their hands! Of course that of itself gave them a stupid attitude——

_Van Weller._ Will you hold your tongue? How was it that you never saw this officer again?

_Frans._ They said in the kitchen that he was abroad with his son, and that when he came home he was going to take Master Charles with him. But he never came back.

_Van Weller._ And his son?

_Frans._ I never heard anything about him.

_Van Weller._ Have you ever seen him?

_Frans._ Never.

_Van Weller_ (_aside_). I think the fellow is lying. (_To Frans._) Did you ever know a man by the name of Huser?

_Frans._ Huser? Yes, very well indeed. He was the young master’s greatest friend. Or rather—for they weren’t exactly friends—he was ... he did ... he gave ... well, I never quite knew what to make of that Huser.

_Van Weller._ Now we’re getting near it! What became of Huser?

_Frans._ H’m!—nothing much! ... he did not turn out anything to boast of, General. He was careless,—he was fast ... that is to say, he wasn’t exactly that. He gambled ... at least, no, he never gambled. But ... in short, I don’t know anything about it. All I know is, that he came to smash in the end.

_Van Weller_ (_aside_). Poor Gustav! poor boy! (_To Frans._) Go on, man, tell me all you know.

_Frans._ He had a difference of opinion with the Procureur du Roi, as we used to say at Paris. He had been imprudent—(_whispers_)—forged cheques!—people took it ill of him,—and—you know the law, General!

_Van Weller_ (_aside_). Poor boy! (_To Frans._) But how was that possible? Was he in debt?

_Frans._ On the contrary, his father had left him plenty of money, and he lived very economically.

_Van Weller._ And he did not play, you say?

_Frans._ Never. He had old-fashioned notions on that head.

_Van Weller._ Was he, perhaps, given to courting?

_Frans._ Oh! no—he was too stiff and solemn for that. He always looked sulky and discontented. He was a tiresome sort of fellow. I think, even, that he used to make verses.

_Van Weller._ And he was your master’s friend?

_Frans._ No, and ... yes! He was always with us, and at our rooms. He always helped the young master when he had the chance; but afterwards he used to give it him like blazes.

_Van Weller._ Strange, very strange! And how long ago is that?

_Frans._ Four years.

_Van Weller._ What was your master doing then?

_Frans._ Nothing.

_Van Weller._ How? I thought he was at the university.

_Frans._ Well—studying, and doing nothing—that comes pretty much to the same thing.

_Van Weller._ And this Huser?

_Frans._ Before that _fâcheux évènement_ I spoke of, he was studying too. I think he wanted to be a lawyer....

_Van Weller._ Silence! Nothing but what I ask you! Is your master a good sort of man?

_Frans._ He might certainly be better.

_Van Weller._ Silence! You deserve a good thrashing. He is a bad servant that speaks ill of his master. If I ask you any question that you would injure your master by answering, then you are to hold your tongue. Do you understand? I don’t want to make any traitors. Remember this carefully, or I shall give the word. Did your master play high at the university? [_Frans is silent._] ... So—he’s silent ... therefore our young gentleman _did_ play ... therefore he is betraying his master by his silence.... Out!

[_Andries strikes him._]

_Frans._ Oh! my dear good gentleman, what _am_ I to say? No, no, the young master never gambled.

_Van Weller._ He lies! Yes—I forgot to say that if you don’t tell the truth, I shall give the word too. Did your master gamble at the university? Out!

[_Andries again raises the whip._]

_Frans_ (_points to the window_). Fire! fire! for heaven’s sake!—save yourselves! ... fire!

[_The General hastens to the window. Andries remains rigidly at his
post. Frans runs to the door._]

_Frans._ I should have done that sooner. (_With a low bow._) General, your humble servant.

[_Exit._

_Van Weller_ (_returning from the window_). I see nothing, absolutely nothing. Where is the fellow?

_Andries._ He’s run away, General.

_Van Weller._ Why didn’t you hold him?

_Andries._ That was not in the orders, sir.

_Van Weller._ The scoundrel has been making a fool of me! Never mind—I know enough for the present. Do you know him, Andries?

_Andries._ Yes, sir, he’s a good-for-nothing fellow.

_Van Weller._ Of course—like master, like man!

_Enter_ SOPHIE, _with a note_.

_Sophie._ You here, Andries? (_Looks at General V. W._) Who’s this man?

_Andries._ Hush—sh!

_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Silence! (_To Sophie._) What do you want here, my girl?

_Sophie_ (_looks hard at him_). I have a note for young Mr Van Bergen’s man. (_To Andries._) Hasn’t Frans been here? Surely this is the gentleman’s room? He said number four, and——

_Van Weller._ Just give me that note.

_Sophie._ Are you Mr Van Bergen’s man too?

_Van Weller._ Yes. Give it here.

_Sophie_ (_to Andries_). Will it be all right if I give it to this man? [_Andries does not answer._] Good gracious! what’s the matter? Why are you standing there as glum and stiff as if you were on parade?

[_Tries to seize his hand, but he pushes her gently back._]

_Andries_ (_nodding towards the General, who is watching them with an air of amusement_). Eh!

_Sophie_ (_shakes him by the arm_). Do speak! What is it?

_Andries._ Eh!

_Sophie._ Has _he_ made you like that? (_To Van Weller._) What does this mean? I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit me at all. May I ask you, for the last time, to tell me what it means? [_Van Weller laughs heartily._] Still better! He thinks he’s making a fool of me. [_Turns to Andries and shakes his arm again._] Andries, Andries, do speak, or I shall be angry!

_Andries_ (_under his breath_). Do be quiet! It’s the General!

“ENTER SOPHIE WITH A NOTE.”
]

_Sophie._ Oh! (_Turns to Van Weller._) Please, sir, may I ask why you wouldn’t let Andries go out on leave the other day? That was not nice of you. I’d——

_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Who is this pretty child?

_Andries._ She’s Mam’zelle Sophie, Freule Van Wachler’s maid.

_Van Weller._ Why, that’s fortunate! (_To Sophie._) Well, and how is my sister Koosje?

_Sophie_ (_surprised_). Your sister Koosje, sir?

_Van Weller._ Yes—Mevrouw Wachler!

_Sophie_ (_curtseys_). Very well, sir. (_To Andries._) Think of that—I never knew that the mistress’s Christian name was Koosje. Why, that’s a name any one of us might have!

_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Are you in love with this charming creature?

_Andries._ With your permission,—yes, General.

_Sophie._ _That’s_ nice of you, Andries! _I_ never asked any one’s permission. And supposing the gentleman were to say, No?

_Van Weller._ Well, well,—you may make your mind easy,—I won’t say No! (_To Andries, calling him aside._) Something has just occurred to me. I don’t want that rascal to tell his master that I have been questioning him. Does he care about...? [_makes the gesture of drinking_].

_Andries._ Yes, General.

_Van Weller._ And try to persuade your sweetheart to stay here a little. I should like to talk to her.

_Andries._ Yes, General. (_To Sophie._) Just give your note to the General, Sophie, and answer him nicely if he asks anything, and be as pleasant and polite as you can. Remember, he can let me off on leave!

[_Salutes, and turns to go, but comes back._]

_Van Weller._ Well—what is it now?

_Andries._ Am _I_ to be drunk, too, General?

_Van Weller._ No need for that! March!

[_Exit Andries._

_Sophie._ Do you wish to take the note, sir?

_Van Weller._ Just lay it down here.

_Sophie._ But I think there’s some hurry about it. The young gentleman said I was to bring a key back with me.

[_Van Weller takes the note, and reads it, with gestures of
astonishment. Looking round, he sees the casket. He goes up to
it, and stands still, lost in thought. At last he takes the key
out of the lock and gives it to Sophie._]

_Van Weller._ There’s the key, my girl. You have done your errand well—so go now—just go.

_Sophie._ But Andries said you wanted to talk to me.

_Van Weller._ Yes ... no ... it’s hardly needed now.... Or.... (_hesitating_) How are things going, Sophie?—is there to be a wedding soon?

_Sophie_ (_confused_). Yes—if Andries....

_Van Weller._ I’m not speaking of Andries now—I mean in the Van Wachler family.

_Sophie._ Ah! I think there will, indeed! for the young lady has three lovers.

_Van Weller._ That’s enough to begin with. I had only heard of one. And who are they?

_Sophie_ (_counts on her fingers_). First, Jonkar Van Bergen,—then the music-master, Holm,—and the third is old Mr Buys.

_Van Weller._ What do you say?—a music-master?

_Sophie._ Oh, don’t laugh at him, sir—he’s such a good man! It’s only a pity that he’s always so sad.

_Van Weller._ And why do you think he is one of the young lady’s lovers?

_Sophie._ Why—because Mr Van Wachler said so himself.

_Van Weller._ Surely you misunderstood him, my good girl.

_Sophie._ Why so? For my part, I should prefer him to Jonkar Van Bergen. Mr Holm is less merry and cheerful, but then one can see that he has had his troubles. They say he is a prince, who has for some reason or other turned music-master,—but I’m not sure of that.

_Van Weller._ And Jonkar Karel?

_Sophie._ Jonkar Van Bergen is—but please don’t say I said so, sir—I don’t think he is to be trusted. This morning, he had been talking to Madame about the young lady and Mr Holm—Madame is very much opposed to the music-master....

_Van Weller._ That I can well believe!

_Sophie._ Well ... he put his arm round her neck and kissed her, and when she was out of the room he made fun of her, though she had just been calling him “_charmant garçon_.” Later on, I heard him say, “Just as silly as ever! She’ll choke with her affection some day!” Now, do you call that a man to be trusted, sir?

_Van Weller._ No, not exactly. [_Chucks her under the chin._] But old Buys now?—how did you come to think of him?

_Sophie._ I don’t quite understand how it is. I never used to notice anything. He is nearly as old as you, sir—and one can’t love a man like that, can one?

_Van Weller_ (_with a start_). Ah!

_Sophie._ I mean love like—love as one——

_Van Weller._ Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll make you a present of the explanation.

_Sophie._ Well—I know nothing about it—but, the other day, when I went up to her sitting-room—now don’t say I told you, sir!

_Van Weller._ No, no—just go on.

_Sophie._ She was sitting on his knee, and he kissed her.

_Van Weller._ Well, I’m surprised at my niece!

_Sophie._ Oh! don’t think any harm of her, sir! The three lovers is the only thing, and I don’t think the worse of her for that! If I were a man, I’d want to be her lover too,—I’m sure I would!

_Van Weller_ (_aside_). I think I must be on the track. (_To Sophie._) Look here, can you hold your tongue?

_Sophie._ Yes—when I’ve nothing to say.

_Van Weller._ When you get home, don’t mention having seen me. I have just returned from Java, and want to surprise the family. Give young Mr Karel the key, and say you had it from Frans.

_Sophie._ But—that would be a story.

_Van Weller._ Did you never tell a fib in your life?

_Sophie_ (_after thinking a while_). Only once—when Andries asked me whether....

_Van Weller._ All right, my child. Say whatever you like.

_Sophie_ (_coaxingly_). Please, sir, if Andries asks for leave——

_Van Weller._ He shall get it! If I were Andries, and had a sweetheart like you, I should have deserted long ago!

[_Exit Sophie._

_Van Weller_ (_alone_). I shall find him—I must find him!—on my soul I will find him. [_Starts, as if remembering something._] That note!—there was something about Huser in it. [_Takes it up and reads._] “Frans, lock the casket at once,—I forgot it. There are letters from Huser in it that concern us alone. Send me the key.” Why is he so anxious to keep these letters secret, as if the existence of the State depended on the publication of a student’s correspondence? I left the box open—but it’s not honest, Weller! [_Walks up and down, as if in doubt._] It’s not honest. But, Gustaf!—perhaps it will help me to trace him! I _will_ read them! [_He goes up to the box, takes out some papers, looks at them, and lays them aside. At last he comes to one which he appears to recognise._] That’s Gustaf’s hand. [_Sits down, reads, and seems much disturbed. At last he jumps up._] Andries! Yes, my presentiment did not deceive me! Oh! my noble boy, where are you? Gustaf! Gustaf! But that scoundrel—that Karel Van Bergen,—who, Heaven mend it! calls himself my nephew. I must see him! He shan’t have that girl of my sister’s, though she were ten times as much of a coquette, and had twenty lovers instead of three! She would still be too good for him! Andries!

_Enter_ FRANS, _intoxicated_.

_Frans_ (_sings_).

“Mon maître est an filou
Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête ... la ... la....”

Ah! good-morning! good-morning! _Mon maître est un filou._ Oh, yes! but we’ve had _circonstances_, splendid _circonstances_—to begin with.

_Van Weller._ Andries!

_Frans._ Andries is a good fellow, a downright good fellow—but just the least bit _bête_. Never been to Paris, sir? Are you coming to Paris? _Allons mourir pour la patrie._

[_Approaches the General._]

_Van Weller_ (_pushes him away roughly, so that Frans falls on the sofa_). Lie there, beast! Andries!

_Frans_ (_muttering_). _Mon maître est un filou...._ [_Falls asleep._]

_Enter_ ANDRIES.

_Van Weller_ (_stamps his foot_). Where the devil have you been all this time, fellow? Get the horses—at once—I must see the king immediately! [_Exit Andries._] My poor boy shall be righted, or they shall never hear the last of it!

MULTATULI.
(_From_ “_The Bride in Heaven_.”)

_DROOGSTOPPEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF._

I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Lauriergracht. It is not my custom to write novels, or any such thing; so it was a long time before I made up my mind to order a couple of reams of paper and begin the work which you, dear reader, have just taken up, and which you ought to read if you are in the coffee business,—or, in fact, if you are anything else. And not only have I never written anything which was in the least like a novel, but I don’t hold with even reading anything of the sort, because I am a man of business. For several years past, I have been asking myself, what is the use of such things? and I am perfectly amazed at the impudence of poets and novelists in palming off upon you things which have never happened, and, for the most part, never can happen. Now, in _my_ business,—I am a coffee-broker, and live in the Lauriergracht, No. 37,—if I were to send in to a principal (a principal is a man who sells coffee) an account containing only a small part of the untruths which are the main point in all poems and romances—why, he would at once go to Busselinck & Waterman. (Busselinck & Waterman are coffee-brokers too; but it is not necessary for you to know _their_ address.) So I take good care not to write any novels, or send in wrong accounts. I have always noticed that persons who let themselves in for that kind of thing generally get the worst of it. I am forty-three, and have been at the Exchange for twenty years, so that I have every right to put myself forward when a man of experience is in demand. I have seen plenty of firms fail in my time! And usually, when I examined into the causes of their failure, it seemed to me that they must be sought for in the wrong direction given to most people in their youth.

_I_ say, “truth and sound sense!” and that I stick to. The mistake comes in, in the first place, with Van Alphen;[8] and that in his very first line about the “dear little creatures.” What on earth could induce this old gentleman to call himself an adorer of my little sister Truitje, who had sore eyes; or of my brother Gerrit, who was always biting his nails? And yet he says that “he sang these verses, compelled by love.” I used often to think, when I was a child, “Man, I _should_ like to meet you, just for once—and then, if you refused me the marbles I should ask you for, or the whole of my name in chocolate letters” (my name is Batavus), “then I should consider you a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen. I think he was already dead when he used to tell us that my father was my best friend. I thought far more of Pauweltje Winser, who lived next door to us. And that my little dog was so grateful for kindness! We never kept dogs, because they are dirty.

That is the way children are brought up; and, later on, come other lies again. A girl is an angel! The man who was the first to discover that, never had any sisters of his own. Love is bliss! One is going to fly, with one object or another, to the end of the earth. The earth has no ends; and, besides, love is madness. No one can say that I do not live happily with my wife,—she is a daughter of Last & Co., coffee-brokers. I am a member of _Artis_,[9]—she has a shawl that cost ninety-two florins,—and yet there was never any question between us of a foolish love like that, which insists on living at the very end of the earth! When we were married, we made a little tour to the Hague, she bought some flannel there, and I am wearing under-vests made of it to this day,—but love never drove us out into the world any farther than that. Thus, it is all madness, and lies together!... It is not verses alone that seduce the young into untruthfulness. Just go into the theatre, and listen to the falsehoods that are being spread abroad there! The hero of the play is pulled out of the water by some fellow on the point of going into the bankruptcy court. Then he gives the fellow half his fortune. That cannot happen! Not long ago, when my hat was blown into the Prinsengracht I gave the man who brought it back to me twopence, and he was quite satisfied. Of course, I know I should have had to give something more if it had been myself that he pulled out, but certainly not half what I possess. Why, it is quite clear that, on this principle, one need only fall into the water twice to be ruined! But the worst of it is, with such things represented on the stage, the public gets so accustomed to all these falsehoods, that it thinks them fine, and applauds them. I should just like to throw a whole pit full of such people into the water, and see whose applause was sincere. I, who hold by the truth, warn every one that I am not going to pay so high a salvage for the fishing up of my person. Any one who is not satisfied with less, may just let me stay where I am. On a Sunday, however, I should pay rather more, because then I wear my gold watch-chain, and my best coat.

Yes! the stage ruins many—still more than the novels. It looks so well! With a little gold tinsel and paper lace, things can be made so attractive. For children, that is to say; and for people who are not in business. Even when they want to represent poverty on the stage, the picture given is always a false one. A girl, whose father has gone bankrupt, is working to keep the family. Very good! There she sits, then, sewing, knitting, or embroidering. But just count the stitches that she takes in the course of the whole scene. She talks, she sighs,—she keeps running to the window,—but she does not work. The family who can live on such work as this, must have few wants indeed! Of course a girl like this is the heroine. She has thrown several villains down the stairs. She continually calls out, “Oh! my mother! my mother!” and thus represents virtue. What sort of a virtue do you call that, that takes a year to finish a pair of woollen socks? Does not all this give people wrong ideas about virtue and working for their living?

“AND HE WAS QUITE SATISFIED.”
]

Then her first lover—he was formerly a clerk at the copying-book, but now a millionaire—suddenly comes back and marries her. Lies again. A man with money will never marry a girl from a house that has failed.... And then—virtue rewarded! I have had plenty of experience in my time; but still it shocks me terribly when I see truth perverted in this way. Virtue rewarded! Isn’t it just like making a traffic out of virtue? It is not so in this world, and a very good thing it is that it is not. Where is the merit of being virtuous, if virtue is to be rewarded? Now, I am as virtuous as most people, but do I expect to be rewarded for it? If my business goes on well,—which, in fact, it does;—if my wife and children keep in health, so that I have no worry with the doctor and chemist;—if, year by year, I can put away a little sum for my old age ...;—if Fritz grows up a good man of business, so that he can step into my shoes when I retire and go to live at Driebergen, ...—well, if all these things are so, I am quite content. But all that is a natural result of circumstances, and of my attention to business. I don’t ask for any special reward for my virtue.

That I am virtuous, is quite evident from my love for truth. This—next to my attachment to our orthodox belief—is my ruling passion. And I should like the reader to be quite convinced of this, because it is my excuse for writing this book.

A second passion, which rules me quite as much, is my devotion to my business. And it is these two which have caused me to write this book. I am now going to explain how this happened.

MULTATULI.
(_From “Max Havelaar.”_)

_DROOGSTOPPEL PAYS A CHARITABLE VISIT._

Droogstoppel had undertaken to publish a volume selected from the MSS.
of his old schoolfellow Havelaar—_alias_ “Sjaalman,”—who had returned
from the Indies in great poverty. He was preparing it for the press
with the help of his son Fritz and his German clerk Stern. He soon
found that the work involved difficulties.

Besides the difficulty of selecting and arranging what was necessary out of such a mass of materials, there were constantly occurring in the MSS. words and expressions which Stern could not understand, and which were new even to me. They were mostly Javanese or Malay. Moreover, many abbreviations were used, which were difficult to decipher. I saw that we needed Sjaalman, and as I do not think it good for a young man to pick up undesirable acquaintances, I was unwilling to send either Stern or Fritz. I took with me some sweets that had remained over from our last party,—for I am always one to think of things like that,—and I set out to look for his abode. It was not a very brilliant one,—but there is no such thing as equality among people, so how can they all expect to live in the same sort of houses? He says something of the same kind himself in his essay on “Claims to Happiness.” Besides, I don’t think anything of people who are always discontented.